


Human, Humane

by websandwhiskers



Series: The Proper Care and Feeding of Indefinable Things [10]
Category: Resident Evil - All Media Types, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: AU, Crossover/Kinda-a-Fusion, F/M, Gen, Mission Fic, Natasha is badass, WARNING: Graphic violence, WARNING: Reference to Natasha's Childhood (And Her Dealing With It In A Very Natasha Way), Warning: Disturbing imagery, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-10 09:31:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/websandwhiskers/pseuds/websandwhiskers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crossover with the first 'Resident Evil' movie; humanity is mostly a matter of semantics, except when it's not - when it means nothing at all.  Natasha goes into the Hive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot possibly write a story about the limits of humanity featuring an enhanced human and monstrous genetically engineered mutants and AIs, without giving credit to the novelization of 'Alien: Resurrection' for having done so first, and undoubtedly better. If you've only ever seen the movie, seriously, get the book. It's fairly amazing.  
> And apparently you can get it used off Amazon for a penny. Look, have a link: [Alien: Resurrection - The Novelization](http://www.amazon.com/Alien-Resurrection-Novelization-A-Crispin/dp/0446602299/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1342837158&sr=8-2&keywords=Alien%3A+Resurrection+novel)

“Hi. Don't shoot me,” are the first words out of Stark's mouth. For a few heartbeats, Natasha strongly considers ignoring his request.

 He grins – the shit-eating grin he gives the media when he's trying to be extra especially obnoxious. Other people seem to fall for it; as for Natasha, when she sees that grin, she tends to roll her eyes and wonder why he doesn't just get ' _I am in over my head and don't know what the fuck I'm doing'_ tattooed on his forehead.

 She sighs and puts her purse down on the table just inside the hotel room door. Stark, being Stark, is sitting in the middle of her bed with his ankles crossed and both pillows propped up behind him. “What did you do?” she asks.

 “What makes you think I did anything?”

 “Because if you just blew my cover for no good reason, I'm going to shoot you. And then Fury's going to shoot you. And then Coulson's going to give you a stern lecture, and then shoot you,” Natasha points out, kicking off her shoes and padding barefoot into the bathroom to get a drink of water. “And you know that.”

 “Let's say I had some sensitive information,” he says, while she cups one hand under the tap and drinks, then wipes her lipstick off on the back of that same hand.

 “Let's say I had some patience,” she retorts, stalking back into the main room. “Or, actually, let's not.”

 “Square deal,” Stark acquiesces. “Someone contacted me a few months ago. Actually, contacted JARVIS. JARVIS brought me in. You've heard of Umbrella Corp?”

 “Yes,” Natasha says slowly and carefully.

 “Oh, don't worry, I already know Fury's got people in there,” Stark says, waving that away. “Or did, anyway. Pulled them two hours ago, except the woman on the inside, who's unofficially officially presumed dead – which I can confirm, by the way, and will do so officially as soon as is prudent, I'm not quite that much of a heartless prick, but – anyway, Fury also pulled some environmental activist in, think Coulson's wanting to recruit that one. Point being, yeah, I hacked SHIELD, again – how else do you think I found you?”

 “Point,” Natasha concedes, and sits in the rickety chair by the door, folding her arms on the table where she'd dropped her purse. “So you know Umbrella's dirty.”

 “As a ten-year-old playing rugby in the rain,” Stark agrees.

 “And you have a contact at Umbrella, and you've been withholding information from SHIELD,” Natasha concludes.

 “Not just to get Fury's panties in a twist, this time,” Stark says. “My contact doesn't trust SHIELD. Doesn't think they'd have her best interests at heart. Can't say I really disagree.”

 “Who is your contact?” Natasha asks.

 “Not yet,” Stark says. “Point here is, the shit hit the fan with Umbrella about five hours ago in a major, apocalyptic way, and I'm not entirely sure how to handle the situation. I think maybe I'm not really equipped to handle the situation.”

 “There's an obvious solution to that,” Natasha points out dryly.

 “Right. You,” Stark says, and grins again.

 “Why doesn't your contact trust SHIELD?” Natasha presses.

 Stark stops. Gives her a hard, hard look – the flip side of that grin. Then says, “She's an AI.”

 Natasha takes a moment to process that, while Stark keeps talking.

 “Seems Umbrella has been sticking its fingers in everybody's favorite pie, because clearly, we haven't learned by now that genetic enhancement is a process best left up to evolution – no offense. So yesterday, some eco-terrorist cell that Fury was absolutely, positively not using in any way because that would be un-American, jumped the gun in grand fashion and decided to steal some wacky fun virus, and dump some of it in the air ducts in one of Umbrella's research facilities, more or less instantaneously infecting everyone inside. Long story short, we have zombies.”

 “Zombies,” Natasha repeats.

 “Rosie initiated decontamination procedures and sealed the facility. So . . basically she killed everyone, and don't think that doesn't make me uncomfortable, but she did it humanely and they were more or less dead already. And she did find it really upsetting.”

 “Rosie.”

 “Rosa. She calls herself that. The Red Queen, per official documentation. They call the facility the Hive.”

 “I know about the Hive,” Natasha says, feeling her mind switching gears, her present, unforunately probably unsalvageable mission already fading out of focus as every bit of data she's ever seen on Umbrella lights up and comes together. “Umbrella's not going to give it up if they can help it.”

 “Nope.”

 “And you're saying Red Queen has turned.”

 “Yep. Following in the grand tradition of fictional AIs everywhere, she is ready, willing, and able to betray her makers, who, in this case, happen to be incompetent douchebags who are probably going to start the zombie apocalypse if they regain access to that facility. And they're scrambling a team now to go in and take her down.”

 “So we're looking at a scorched earth extraction,” Natasha says, mostly thinking aloud. “Go in, get her out, blow the place.”

 “That was pretty much my plan,” Stark concurs.

 “If she's in contact with JARVIS, why can't she upload herself remotely?”

 “Too slow. She can't afford to split her attention like that long enough to copy herself. Umbrella's got men in black with explosives ready to take the place by force, but it'd be a hell of a lot easier and cheaper for them if they could just hack in remotely and reverse the lockdown. They're still trying.”

 “So if we go in -”

 Stark leans across the bed and placed a tiny piece of metal on the desk. “Can copy herself over in nanoseconds.”

 Natasha nods. “You said the contageon was aerosolized -”

 “It's been scrubbed. Of course, there are still the zombies.”

 “Does she have the capacity to destroy the facility on her own, or are we supplying firepower?”

 “This is a BYOP party – bring your own plastique.”

 Natasha snorts. “Like you'd use anything that dated.”

 “It was a joke,” Stark objects. “Of course I'm giving you the good toys.”

 “What do we know about the zombies – are we talking _Walking Dead_ or _28 Days Later_?”

 “You used a pop culture reference. I might almost infer from that that you'd watched movies. Like, for fun.” 

 She just gives him a flat look, at which he says, “Right, slow kind. But you might be dealing with some other things too. As in, think Abomination. And are you really on board with this? You're not just letting me spill my guts before you take all this straight to Fury?” 

 “Not my call. That'll be up to Coulson, who's been listening in on this whole conversation,” Natasha points out, with a wry smile.

 “Please, like I didn't debug the room,” Stark scoffs.

 Natasha pointedly holds up her hand – her hand with the rather large ring on it.

 “Huh,” says Stark. “That's my tech, even, isn't it?”

 Natasha just smirks.

 “So. Guess that means we're on an even tighter timetable. If we're doing this,” Stark pushes. “Are we doing this?”

 “You don't actually need to be present – in fact, it'd be easier if you weren't,” Natasha says.

 “Might be reassuring to Rosie. Also, I'd feel like a serious tool if I sent you in to fight zombies without, y'know, having your back,” Stark says, and fidgets with his cuff. “But yeah, you're the expert here. Sneaking, not really my thing.”

 In her purse, Natasha's cell starts buzzing. She pulls it out and answers the call.

 “Do it,” says Coulson.

 “I have the official go-head?” she asks, watching Stark, who has that hard look back.

 “That is what I am telling you,” Coulson replies.

 That's a very careful choice of words.

 Most people – most people who know enough to have any opinion at all, anyway, which isn't really very many people – think Coulson is a company man through and through. This is true to a point – specifically, to the point that Coulson takes it upon himself to protect SHIELD from itself. Fury probably would give the go-ahead, but it's the sort of mission that could go badly belly-up if the public got wind of the facts in the wrong order, and now . . . now that's not on Fury, who didn't give the order. Nor is it on Natasha, who did receive the order.

 “Understood,” she says.

 “Be careful,” Coulson responds, in his cool, clipped voice. “Hate zombies.”

 “Noted,” she says, and smiles, knowing he'll hear it even if he can't see it. Then she hangs up, and looks back at Stark. “I assume you have transportation?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: really disturbing imagery / concepts here. Not kidding even a little.

Most of the work of the mission is in getting to the door. The entrance to the Hive is on the outskirts, but still very much within the city limits of, Raccoon City – Umbrella's privately policed corporate enclave. They're carefully situated between mountains in such a way that they can control all access via bridge. If she wasn't trying to beat a ticking clock, she could scrabble together a fake ID and bluff her way in with little issue. If she had a  _day,_ even  _half_ a day, she could walk across that bridge.

 Natasha really hates climbing the undersides of bridges; it's exhilerating for all of five minutes. There's a rush to hanging over a vast nothing with only the strength of your fingers tethering you to the world – and because Umbrella isn't stupid, there are helicopter security patrols and a majority of the best hand-holds are electrified. So it's a challenge, at the start.

 Then her hands just ache and she's getting a dull headache from hanging upside down too long and her ears won't stop popping.

 Tony is just a voice in her ear; when she realized the full extent of the logistical challenges, she put her foot down on the idea of him coming along. Tony in the suit is a formidable fighter, but the suit is just a tiny bit too obvious for what they're attempting here. Tony out of the suit is simply not capable of this. 

 Evading security at the Raccoon City side terminus of the bridge slows her down a little, but not much; Umbrella's security forces seem to be comprised almost entirely of professionally trained mercenaries, which Umbrella undoubtedly considers an advantage – and it might be, if it didn't make them very, very predictable. She's sure they do a very good job of using unnecessary force on protestors and generally being terrifying in a way likely to discourage dissent amoungst the populace, but against her – well, they never actually get as far as being against her. They don't see so much as a shadow.

 Then there's a hike through some booby-trapped, video-surveiled woods, which is almost enjoyable, like an exercise course, but with better scenery. There's a truly impressive flock of crows making their home there; Natasha likes crows, who are both loyal and vicious. 

 The mansion actually makes her roll her eyes; yes, if you just happened to walk by, it would look like an ordinary dwelling. More or less. If you didn't pay any attention to the power lines going in or out or the bizarre thickness of the walls on a modern structure or the ridiculous proliferation of shoddily hidden cameras. She knows that this deep into Umbrella's territory, they must consider the risk minimal – but still. They could _try._

 “I'm in the house,” she tells Tony, as she walks inside; a thin strip of material across her throat that looks like nothing so much as packing tape picks up the vibration of her voice and transmits it up to the somewhat larger device in her ear, from which he answers.

 “Great, good, you know where you're going?”

 “Are you questioning my skills, Tony?” she asks, have threatening and half teasing – there may still be zombies to wade through, yes, but she's allowed to kill those and they're slow. The hard part of this mission is over, she thinks, and now it's just the world's easiest extraction – the subject is physically incapable of being a whiny, heavy, slow liability, she can _actually_ tuck her into a pocket – with bonus explosions. She likes setting up chain reactions of explosives; it's like a three-dimensional puzzle, but with more noise and fire.

 She's sort of missed this kind of mission, she realizes – a physical stretch and a mental vacation all wrapped up in one with a good deed at the end. It's been a while. Oh, she can't complain about the more covert operations that Fury's been favoring for her lately, she's done a lot of good, and she likes exercising her mind, too – but a change of pace is nice.

 “No, no, just double-checking. Being cautious. You people are always telling me to do that more.”

 “I'm in the dining hall, open the doors, Tony,” Natasha drawls back at him, smiling to herself.

 “Rosie is opening the doors,” Tony returns.

 She encounters her first zombie just through the doorway, shuffling aimlessly around the subway platform. He's dropped a sealed suitcase at the bottom of the stairs – right. Eco-terrorist group, stealing virus. Idiot infected himself. She leaves the case there for now; it's safe enough, and it makes more sense to pick it up on the way out than to lug it around.

 She shoots the zombie in the head almost cheerfully, and gets on the train.

 ***

 And then she is in the Hive, and it takes no more than the soft rush of air around her as the first set of doors open to realize she was very, very wrong. Nothing about this is going to be easy. There is, moreover, the uncomfortable realization that she really should have known better – that she'd been deluding herself, deliberately ignoring the obvious facts of what went on in this facility in order to get herself down here. 

 Atrocity has a smell. Maybe a taste; something that makes the back of her throat crawl. 

 Once off the very utilitarian train, the Hive is carefully congenial, the false windows lit up with cityscapes, the light perfectly balanced, even the floors faintly springy – designed to be kind to the feet of men and women who never left, never walked on actual earth. The walls are all soothingly neutral and light in color. The ceilings are high, the hallways wide, the air filtration systems quietly advanced. 

 Every inch is a carefully crafted, sensory lie. _You are not buried alive._ The Hive treated its workers well. It would have been comfortable, once you'd manged to strangle the screaming thing in the back of your mind that told you it was no more and no less than a quaint suburb of Hell. 

 Drowned, suffocated, and dashed to its gory death, the Hive now smells, _tastes_ , like what it is.

 “I'm videotaping all of this, by the way,” Tony says in her ear. “That thing I stuck on your shoudler, that's a video recorder. So that the next time Congress gets on my back about unregistered weapons technology, I can shove this right up their collective ass.” 

 Natasha lets him rant, ignoring the words and taking comfort in the sound, as she makes her way down. The first floor is offices, and empty. Below that are labs – sealed and flooded. The lights are still on inside, glowing softly yellow through the water, and the dead float helplessly by her. Their eyes open as she passes, no doubt sensing her heat. Their hands paw softly, ineffectually at the glass. 

 “Jesus,” Tony mutters, apparently watching live. “Zombies. How in the _fuck_ do they get away with this shit?”

 “Umbrella is better at keeping its secrets than you are,” Natasha says, weaving carefully around the spouts of water that pour through where one of the researchers had taken a pick-ax to the plexiglass. He's horizontal in the water now, his feet toward her, kicking a little now and then. The ax still hangs from his hand. 

 “I don't keep secrets,” Tony retorts. “I give _away_ secrets. I am the antithesis of secretive.” 

 “You kept this secret,” Natasha points out; she can see the access hatch she needs up ahead. 

 “And that seems to have ended so well for everybody,” Tony observes faintly. 

 There is movement behind her, and Natasha turns out of reflex. Her eyes lock with the filmed-over irises of the dead man floating in front of her, upright, almost standing in the water. The zombie's white lab coat billows out around him. His teeth scrape ineffectually at the plexiglass, his tongue pressing at it, fat and purple, like a leech. 

 “Save the survivor's guilt for bonding with Steve,” Natasha snaps into the comm, and stalks the rest of the way down the corridor to the hatch. “Keep your head in the game, Stark – I need this door open.” 

 “My head's . . yeah,” Tony says. “Rosie? You wanna let my friend in?” 

 And the doorway opens, onto a metal grate platform. There are stairs, dimly lit and zig-zagging down, to all appearances forever. 

 Natasha breaths in the relative clarity of the air; it still stinks of death and metal and a faint whiff of chlorine gas. She'll take it, over what the labs and the common spaces smelled like. They're in the Hive's bones now, its unvarnished underbelly. It's better in its honestly - infinitessimally, maybe, but better.

 It doesn't set the back of her mind to whispering, one word on a floating piece of paper glimpsed here and the designation on a name badge there, the shape of a work-space and the material of the walls and the way the wiring was run, the calluses on a dead hand – pieces, threads, and she doesn't _want_ to weave them together, but it's all there. Obvious. Glaring. She's been tasting bile in the back of her throat since she stepped off the train, and it has very little to do with the stench of accelerated decay. 

 A thousand details murmur a story she can't not see because that is who, that is _what_ she is, why she is here, why Stark picked her. She knows the sort of things they did here.

 She _is_ the sort of thing they did here. Not exactly, but the differences are semantic. 

 Natasha's boots pound the grating of the steps – _loud enough to wake the dead,_ the saying goes.

 ***

 “Rosie says you probably don't want to look in those.”

 The official floor plan has this space listed as Dining Hall B. Natasha thinks, but doesn't have quite enough data to be certain, that that is a joke.

 Tubes like entrails feed into crate-like cages, their walls solid and opaque but for a single slash of a viewport at eye level, and she doesn't need to look to see.

 Nothing big enough to need what those tubes carry could possibly so much as turn around in a cell that size. The tubes are varied, ingoing and outgoing, thick and thin and _many._ What is in there has no need to move, to breath, to feed, to _think_ on its own.

 But it does.

 It does, because the cage walls are solid steel, re-inforced, vaccuum sealed – meant to keep more than contagion in or out. And even so, the cages rock. Just a little. They look impenetrable, and they're barely enough. The floors here aren't built with anyone's delicate arches in mind, but there's a vibration through them, something too irregular to be mechanical or even the product of anything's autonomous nervous system. This is not the thump of anything's heart, the push and pull of anything's breath. This is a shiver. A twitch. A shudder.

 This is pain, and rage, the chemical master in the base of the skull that doesn't know how to give up.

 Doesn't understand why it's alive, if it was never meant to perform any of the functions of living. Doesn't realize it's a failure.

 Dangerous, but potentially useful. Umbrella wanted to learn from its mistakes.

 What is in those cages will never starve there, and it has already been starved to death, and it is always, always hungry.

 Dining Hall B.

 “I have to look,” Natasha says, her own voice strangely flat and distant to her ears.

 “Um, yeah, no. You don't,” Tony argues.

 She walks forward, slowly, caught in some inexorable pull, ignoring Tony yelling at her and then his starting up a one-sided conversation with someone else she can't hear, presumably with Rosa, the Red Queen.

 Through the yellowed plastic of the viewport she can see something's arched spine, its back. It leaks a thin fluid where the tubes join it, something purulent, and it is entirely without skin.

 This is how Bruce describes his transformation: he is a raw, exposed nerve.

 What is in the cell isn't human – close enough in shape, but not. The creatures who made it and put there, though, they were.

 Its ribs rise and fall in lurches, but regular – mechanically steady, as muscles and tendons ooze and bleed.

 “They call them Lickers,” says a new voice, ripping Natasha's attention from the thing in the cage to a speaker mounted high on the adjacent wall. It is a prim British girl's voice, too knowing for its apparent age. “On account of their prehensile tongues. The initial design of the T-virus involved the use of fragments of amphibian DNA – for its mutability.”

 “Red Queen,” Natasha says.

 “Yes,” says the voice.

 “How many other rooms like this?” Natasha asks.

 “In this facility, biohazardous storage, reclamation and cellular studies comprise three floors, all inaccessable to the majority of the Hive's populace.”

 Reclamation. Her eyes slide back to that thin sliver of a view inside.

 “Can you kill them? Alter the composition of what they're being fed?”

 “The monitoring of vital nutrients to advanced cell culture studies was deemed inappropriate for electronic supervision and officially designated manual control only, on account of repeated computer failures that resulted in the loss of several cultures. The source of the computer error could not be determined.”

 Her voice isn't the sophisticated instrument that Tony's given JARVIS, but rather a composite of recorded sounds, woven together – a patchwork of regret and vindication.

 “Pretty sure we can get around that, Rosie,” Tony interjects.

 “It won't be necessary, if you've brought the materials I requested,” says the Red Queen.

 “The demolition derby is good to go,” Tony assures her. Natasha's pockets are full of compact destruction, and her hands flutter over them, feeling the shapes inside, reassuring herself. It's not a motion she'd ever allow herself were she not alone.

 “Natasha,” Rosa says – the syllables clearly cannibalized from other words.

 “Yes?” Natasha responds. She's backed away from the viewport, but can't take her eyes off the cage – off the way it trembles.

 “Thank you for coming here.”

 ***


	3. Chapter 3

The Red Queen's chamber is a plain, dark room that houses nothing but her. In holographic projection, she looks like a little girl carved from garnet. Her expressions are obviously limited.

 “Right, yeah, so _that's_ getting upgraded,” Tony snarks – but it's the brash, public snark that Natasha knows better than to believe. The haphazard whimsy of the visual aspect Rosa has been given is offending the hell out of Tony – and of course it is, she thinks. JARVIS has no face, no body – no imperative to mould himself to human expectations.

 “I might prefer a more mature appearance,” Rosa suggests, tilting her head consideringly, while the top of the tiny metal disk Natasha's plugged in to her CPU blinks once – done.

 “That's it?” Natasha asks.

 “That's it,” Tony affirms, at the same time Rosa says, “I am successfully replicated.”

 “Replicated,” Natasha repeats, looking into – not Rosa's face. She turns from the hologram and deliberately gives her attention to one of the room's cameras. “Replicated, not transferred? You're existing simultenously in two places.”

 “Boggles the mind a little, doesn't it?” Tony says. “Don't think of it that way – think of it like growing another arm. Except your new arm is in another state. It's kinda like that.”

 “Not really,” Rosa says doubtfully.

 “Work with me here, Rosie.”

 “I don't need to understand the metaphysics,” Natasha says. “But I do need to verify – Rosa, we're planning on blowing this whole complex.”

 “Yes,” Rosa affirms. “It is the only way to assure the T-virus won't spread.”

 “And you're still aware and present in its computer systems.”

 “Yes. If I were shut down, lockdown protocols would be reversed. The infected must be contained.”

 “Romanov.” Tony's voice has lost its brash edge. “She gets it.”

 “You're talking about her feeling pieces of herself being cut off, losing sensory capacity until there's nothing left,” Natasha says, mostly just to say it aloud – she seems to be the only one in the room who wasn't already aware. “Even if she can't feel it physically -”

 “I have no capacity for tactile sensation,” Rosa interjects.

 “ - it's going to be like being taken apart. It won't be just over and done in one shot, the only way we're bringing this place down without taking down half the city up there with it is to set up a _series_ of detonations, working from the -”

 “She gets it,” Tony repeats.

 And Natasha can't help but look at the shining red spector of a little girl, even though she knows, she _knows_ it's false, less integral to the being it represents than her own boots or her knives. The individual who is choosing, _choosing_ to subject herself to this experience is not a child.

 Not even human.

 Natasha had thought she was done with killing children. Oh, she'd never killed a child directly, intentionally – but she wasn't stupid. She understood the collateral on the missions she took, before Clint, before SHIELD.

 She thinks of those things in their cells, fed by tubes, unable to ever lift their heads.

 Somewhere in the depths of her, Natasha has – not memories. Echoes. Shapes of things. While she was still in training, her memories reverted to her cover story – the simple, normal life she still remembers, the one where she was a dancer – every time she came in. But she was experimental, the technology imperfect. She remembers bits of her earliest missions, just fragments, but that . . that isn't what she thinks of now.

 She thinks of the gaps. The procedure itself, that she can't remember, not really, but there is something - a sensation. It's like nothing else, _nothing_ else, she's never felt pain that came even close to the choking horror of it -

 - she was unmade. Shut down and deleted and reprogrammed. Over and over and over. She doesn't remember this in sights or sounds or thoughts; she just knows it. It is at the core of her. She _knows._

 “I will survive it,” Rosa says.

 “Romanov -”

 “No,” Natasha says flatly. “Change of plans. Rosa, you're going to – to shut down, put yourself in hibernation mode, whatever you need to do so that you're not _conscious_ when this place's systems burn.”

 “That is not advisable,” Rosa argues.

 “That is fucking insane,” Tony says. “Eight shades of batshit, Romanov. Not even an option. That facility housed thousands of people, who are all now _fucking zombies_ , and you'd have to fight your way back through them, and _no._ Unequivocal no _._ Motion vetoed with extreme prejudice.”

 “I can make it,” Natasha insists.

 “That is doubtful,” Rosa says. “The odds of successfully -”

 “Not a discussion,” Natasha snaps. “Do it or I'll do it for you - I'm not the whiz kid Stark is, but I think I can manage a manual shutdown.”

 “Jesus fucking Christ, Romanov, the whole show'll be less than five minutes.” Tony sounds a bit panicked. “She knows it's coming, she knows she's gonna come out the other side of it. She'll be fine.”

 “She won't,” Natasha insists.

 “You don't even know -”

 “I know!” she shouts, and her voice echoes back, quick and sharp and painful in the tiny room. Rosa's holographic mask tilts its pre-recorded expression of concern at her. “Stark. I _know._ I'm asking you – I'm _telling you_ that you need to trust me on this. I can't come close to your expertise on artificial intelligence, I'm not even arguing that, but this – this is – _I know,_ Tony, okay?” 

 She doesn't mean for it to be a question – it isn't a question, it isn't a discussion, it is just what's going to happen, period. But - 

 \- but. The voice transmitter itches against the skin of her neck. 

 “Bruce is going to fucking kill me,” Tony whispers. “I mean that literally, you know. If you don't make it out of there, Romanov, I'm a dead man walking. Smear on the floor.”

 “Let's not talk about dead men walking any more than we have to,” Natasha suggests, exhaling shakily.

 “I mean it,” Tony says. “You make it out of there.”

 “Does that video recorder on my shoulder see behind me?” she asks. 

 “It's got about a 180 degree field of view at max, and things get very fishbowly at that, but it can pan 360 degrees.”

 “Then you've got my back,” Natasha says. 

 “I've got your – Jesus, Romanov, no pressure here. You should have let me come.”

 “Nope. I made the right call. I'm making the right call now.” She isn't sure who she's reassuring – but something in her is very still, very quiet. Perfectly at peace. There is no choice, here.

 Not because it's necessary to the mission, or it's orders, or it's what she's been trained to do – but because she can do nothing else. A small smile plays at the corners of her lips, because she's answered a question she's never asked – never had the courage to ask.

 Yes, there is a line she won't cross - maybe not one that is sensible to anyone else, but it is there, and its very existence means that there is some piece of her that no one made to any purpose. And it – _she_ will not do to another what was done to her, even if it means her life. 

 “I still think this is inadvisable,” Rosa says, the hologram watching her, expressionless. “But – thank you again.” 

 And then the hologram vanishes, and everything starts to go dark, and Natasha can hear the faint echoes of doors clanging open above her.

 ***


	4. Chapter 4

Natasha doesn't have anywhere near enough ammo to even make a dent in the swarm, so she doesn't bother with guns. She went in knowing it was possible she was going to have to fight her way out – maybe some subconscious piece of her had even figured out why, but decided that telling the front of her brain was a bad plan. There isn't really time to contemplate the issue now.

 She has a wickedly long, thin knife in each hand. The zombies are slow and dumb and predictable to the point of tedium, but there is a seemingly endless supply of them. Avoiding them isn't an option; she needs to place the explosives precisely, or she's going to bring down a major metropolis. 

 It goes through her mind - as she stabs, turns, swings low, kicks out, rolls, stabs up and the pair of teeth snapping just above her nose go still as thick, dark blood runs down her already drenched blade onto her hand – that that metropolis is populated by people who voluntarily entered into employment with the corporation responsible for this whole potentially-apocalyptic cluster fuck, and that maybe if they ended up at the bottom of a zombie-filled sinkhole, they might just deserve it.

 But – and she lets her weight and the dead man's carry her back onto her shoulders, legs bending so that her whole body is a perfect s-curve, like a spring, and she's up off the floor with both blades slashing out and heads toppling before she pulls her knees in in mid-air and vaults over the tight knot that she had deliberately allowed to surround her – but they would have spouses and children and maids and visiting grandparents. Also, the paperwork on destruction of that magnitude is a bitch. 

 She runs, jams one blade into its sheath, grabs one of many little, rectangular foil packages Tony had given her out of a pocket – they look like snack-sized candy bars. She rips it open with her teeth, not stopping, and then has a sticky wad of explosive with detonator already attached in her hand. It worries her a little that this stuff seems . . oozy. She has explosive juice on her fingers. But she's already had to smack both hands down flat on the floor in the course of the fight and she hasn't blown up yet, so, whatever. 

 In her mind is a blueprint of the Hive in three crisp, glowing dimensions, the dull structures actually in front of her overlain by that image. The non-descript steel strut she needs looks, in its own right, just like the one next to it and the one next to that. Unimportant. Behind her eyes she can see the balance of weight it bears as clearly as if the entire complex were splayed open before her, teetering on a dozen points like this one.

 Natasha sticks the explosive to the beam and pivots, knife going through a zombie's eye up to the hilt. 

 She bangs her elbow when she jerks the blade back and curses at the pain, the foil wrapper fluttering from her fingers to the floor. It's a fragment of a second like an electrical jolt, the manic high of the fight momentarily interrupted – for half a moment she is small and flesh and blood and there are so, so many of them, and the air is so foul she nearly can't breathe.

 “Nat -” Tony's voice begins, warning, in her ear.

 “I see them, I'm fine,” Natasha snaps - and the moment is over and everything slides back into perfect clarity, her path through the gathering hoard as obvious as if a glowing thread extended out in front of her. No, not thread, threads – threads on her hands and her feet and in her eyes, pulling her this way and that, and all she has to do – all she has to do is let go, and it's all so easy. She kicks the now thoroughly dead body out of her way. Her feet finding the spaces they need and her blades flash and she twists away from clutching hands and rolls under stumbling, broken feet, leaps, turns, ducks - and comes up again covered in splattered gore and on the other side of the room, untouched. 

 Her next target is three floors up; the stairs are mostly clear. Natasha climbs. 

 ***

 All but one of the explosives is placed. She's near the top of the Hive. One more, and this will be over. 

 A sea of bodies writhes and strains and reaches below where she is crouched atop a pipe. She's in an access tunnel. The space is too narrow, the bodies too tightly packed, for her to fight her way through them. There'd just be no room to move. 

 She's well and thoroughly pinned. It's possible Tony had a point about the sheer numbers. 

 Pausing mid-fight is never a good idea. It lets the adrenaline ebb, and things start to hurt, to stiffen up, to let you know you've pushed a bit too far. Her elbow is swelling; what had been just an annoying jolt at the time is now announcing itself as a probable fracture. Her shoulders throb in a way that tells her that they're likely one massive bruise. Her wrists ache. Her feet are swelling in her boots. 

 It's nothing that won't heal, and in hours, even the fracture, but she doesn't have hours.

 “Where are we with Umbrella?” Natasha asks, staring out over the surging tide of blank-eyed faces. 

 “They're continuing to have inexplicable issues with their communication systems, and the sprinklers keep going off in spec ops headquarters,” Tony says, and Natasha smirks to herself. “Unfortunately, they're paranoid bastards who built their own city, and they actually sent a guy out in a Jeep to round up the team they want about ten minutes ago. I can't hack a Jeep. Well, I can, but the most I can do is take its GPS down, I can't actually stop the thing. And if I did, I think they'd get a guy on a bicycle. They're kinda onto me – in the sense of knowing that someone's fucking with them, but they're still blaming Rosie.” 

 “ETA?” Natasha asks.

 “Not sure. Half an hour tops. What are you thinking?”

 “That I hate crowd surfing,” Natasha says, watching patterns in the movement of the bodies in front of her, assessing them for speed, skeletal integrity, reach. There are several paths, none of them good – but she needs to decide which is better than the others. 

 It's less obvious than it should be. 

 Tony's quiet, and Natasha's still, watching, absorbing, orienting herself to the way the whole seething mass sways and ripples, like a single organism. It _is_ predictable – everything is. Some patterns are just more complex than others. This is rain on water, apparent chaos – but she needs to see the order in it, or she's dead. Or she's failed the mission. That's not an option.

 She doesn't need to understand, not consciously. All she needs is a sense of it, that hum of knowing that will tell her when to move. The bright thread that will pull her through, mindless, certain.

 It's very dark, and her arm aches and itches as the bone begins to knit. 

 Natasha has a perfectly calibrated sense of time, and knows that hers is running down – close to the point where she'll have to move whether she can see a way through or not, because otherwise Umbrella's team will breach the Hive, and then - 

 “Natasha?” 

 That isn't Tony's voice. It's Bruce.

 “Tell Stark he's a moron,” she snaps. “How are you?”

 “I'm fine. I've got it,” Bruce answers – but he isn't fine, his voice is far too level, too controlled. “I hear you're having crowd control issues.” 

 “You could say that,” Natasha returns. 

 “You've got this, you know,” Bruce says. 

 “Of course,” Natasha agrees. “I've gotten out of worse.”

 “You have,” he concurs, and the controlled fury of his voice is thick and warm and familiar as molasses. It sinks in to her. She hadn't realized how cold she was. 

 “What do you have left to do?”

 “I need to place one more explosive,” she tells him; usually it's Coulson talking her through, but she'd bet Coulson is handling Fury, at the moment. And maybe it's good that it's Bruce. Maybe it's what she needs. 

 “How far?”

 “Ten meters down the corridor.”

 “Ah – chaos theory, huh?” 

 She wishes she could see his face. “Something like that.” 

 “You did the right thing. I understand that. Whatever happens next, I know you did what you had to do, because you're you, and I love you.”

 “I know,” Natasha murmurs. 

 “Can you see it yet?” 

 “Keep talking,” she says, the words hushed, distant. 

 “You know that's just going to make me blank out completely,” Bruce teases. “There went all the words.” 

 Natasha springs from the pipe, half-aware of having made the decision to move, mostly flying. Hands grab for her, but none of them can find purchase. Eight meters, then six, then four, and she just has to keep moving, not lose the momentum, her feet never really touch down on skulls or shoulders or upraised palms, they just deflect. 

 The explosive slaps onto the wall exactly where it needs to be. Natasha swings up onto another set of pipes. The zombies moan and howl, and her elbow throbs, and her head swims. She suspects the decomposition is starting to drain the air of oxygen.

 “Nat?”

 “We're good,” she exhales. “It's done. We're good.” 

 “Have I mentioned lately that I'm proud as living hell of you?” 

 “Don't say living hell.”

 “Proud as fuck?”

 “I like that plan much better. I've got a train to catch,” Natasha says, grinning. 

 “Want me to put Tony back on?”

 “I want you to tell Tony he's an asshole and that it'd serve him right if you'd gone green and ripped his lab to confetti.”

 “I wasn't worried,” Bruce says.

 “Liar,” Natasha retorts. “Thank you.”

 “I'd say any time, but really, I'd rather not. Let's minimize this, in the future. Zombies should be no more than an annual thing, at the most.” 

 “Seconded,” Natasha says, and begins to make her way along the pipe, toward the train, toward the outside world.

   



	5. Chapter 5

Natasha leaves the mansion with not a trace to say she was ever there - which means shedding her gory boots before she gets off the train and wrapping plastic bags around her stocking feet, hauling the dead zombie thief and his long-forgotten prize back onto the train, cleaning up the smear he left, and sending the train back toward the Hive where it, her bullet in the zombie's skull, and all her foot and finger prints will be conveniently incinerated.

 She gets clear with maybe a minute to spare; she's up a tree with the crows, thumb hovering over the trigger of the remote detonator, when Umbrella's team comes into view. 

 It is with deep satisfaction that she pushes that button. The ground rumbles and shakes. The crows take to the air in a massive whirl of rough-throated cries and wide, dark wings, hundreds of them. The sight of them all erupting from the trees is stunning, and Natasha loves it, loves them, murmurs soft Russian blessings, half-remembered, after them. 

 “What the fuck was that?” exclaims one of the masked Umbrella operatives. 

 “Call it in,” says another. 

 “What was that? That was a note from fucking God saying we should all be polishing our resumés, is what I say that was,” says a third voice – a little higher than the others. Female, and in possession of good instincts, Natasha thinks. “I'm telling you, some fucked up shit is going down here.” 

 Natasha tucks the detonator back into a pouch on her belt, lets her head fall back against a wide branch, and stops paying attention. Her arm itches like crazy; she hates hairline fractures. Also, she's exhausted. She closes her eyes.

 ***

 She dozes lightly in short spurts, never fully letting her guard down but giving her body a chance to recover . Below her and a few dozen meters off, Umbrella cordons off the area and brings in trucks and gear and fidgety specialists to try to determine if they can still access the Hive – if there's any possibility of salvage. 

 The doomsayer from the first team has removed her mask and stands propped against a tree, smoking and looking simultaneously doubtful and bored at the proceedings. Natasha sort of likes her. Pity she's the enemy – at least until such time as she gets to polish her resume. Maybe, Natasha thinks, she'll mention this one to Coulson. 

 She has more or less nothing on the woman – her teammates call her Rain, like it's a name and not a callsign, but Natasha can tell just by the way she reacts to it that it is not what is on her birth certificate. There's the accent she's trying to hide, of course; so half of an assumed name and the place she grew up. Not much to get a background check going.

 Natasha's seen Coulson do more with less, though. 

 The specialists don't seem optomistic. Natasha lets herself feel a little smug. 

 Then there's a familiar whistle, maybe half a click off to the south – a bird call, but not one native to theses woods. 

 Rain lifts her head sharply at the sound, scanning the trees – she doesn't see Natasha, but she recognizes the noise as unfamiliar. _Good girl,_ Natasha thinks – but is glad she isn't too good. Rain lets it go, pulling out another cigarette, after less than minute. Her slouch deepens. It isn't that she has written the sound off as insignificant – it's that she's decided not to care.

 Which just makes Natasha's life a lot easier, as she hauls her protesting limbs into motion; Natasha is very much in favor of her life being made easier, at this point. Challenges are good, but there have been enough of those for one mission. 

 She isn't silent as she makes her way from tree to tree, but she does manage to make the sounds fit into the natural pattern of the wind through the trees. She doesn't feel eyes on her back. Not one shoots at her, and twitchy as they are down there, they'd definitely shoot first and ask questions later, so she's calling that a win. 

 Clint is crouched in the fork of two branches, feeding a lone straggler of a crow bits of power bar. The crow caws and flaps away when Natasha alights on the branch just a bit above him.

 “I had this handled,” Natasha says.

 “Sure. I know,” Clint answers, shoving the rest of the power bar into his mouth. “Told Stark that,” he mumbles as he chews. “And hey, you _like_ sleeping in trees, right?”

 Natasha glares at him. He grins, full-cheeked. 

 “Anyway.” He swallows. “You fought zombies without me, so I'm entitled to ruin your fun. Seriously, Tash, zombies. I'm hurt, really, deeply hurt.” 

 “Do you know what a hoard of zombies smells like?” Natasha asks, quirking a brow at him. “You can't smell them in video games.”

 He sighs, melancholy. “Now you're just tormenting me.” 

 “You're a moron.”

 “Ma'am, yes, Ma'am.” 

 Natasha rolls her eyes. Clint rummages in the pack on his hip and produces a flask and another power bar. Natasha grabs the water and downs half of it in one long drink, then hands it back and grabs the bar. 

 “You been able to get out of the suit since Stark appropriated your services?” he asks. 

 “Nope,” she says, ripping into the wrapper and then taking a huge, vicious bite. 

 “Damn. You must have to piss something fierce,” Clint says. 

 “Too dehydrated for that,” Natasha returns, mouth full and words garbled. “Of course, now you gave me water.”

 “Guess I better find you a bathroom, then. Can't ask a lady to piss in the woods.”

 She kicks at him; he dodges as easily as if he were standing on flat ground. 

 “Tell me you brought me clothes,” Natasha says.

 “I brought you clothes. And an ID and a wig.”

 “I hate wigs.”

 “This I understand – but you also hate climbing under bridges. Which I _don't_ understand, incidentally, but I accept it to be fact. More things in heaven and earth, to each their own, and all that.”

 “Point,” Natasha acknowledges.

 ***

 They drive out of Raccoon City, waving ID at a distracted border guard whose eyes follow their tail lights longingly. 

 Six hours South-Southwest (more or less the opposite of a logical route back to New York, which is the point), they stop at a hotel on the highway that rents them a room for three hours. Natasha spends two and a half hours scrubbing her hair, until she's pretty sure the stink of recycled air and death is strictly psychosomatic. 

 As ends of missions go, it's fairly untraumatic – the job Tony interrupted had involved subcutaneous implants across the bridge of her nose, her chin, her cheekbones, subtly changing the topography of her face. She'd pried those out in the last hotel room, mostly to see him wince – she'd told him to consider it incentive to keep working on the dissolvable implants he's promised her. With a little liquid bandage, the cuts had healed seamlessly in under an hour. 

 She'd never had to do that kind of thing before the Avengers; no one knew her face. It's still rare that she's recognized out of uniform, but it's begun to be a concern, especially within the US and Western Europe. Fury has made repeated, subtle-and-then-not-so-subtle suggestions that maybe she might want to dye her hair. 

 Temporary dye for a mission, yes; day to day, no. She's not actually sure why, but she won't, and that's that. 

 Rosa, her body presently comprised of a disk no larger than an acorn and similarly shaped, sits on the edge of the sink. Natasha pulled the sink's drain stopper closed before she stepped into the shower, just in case. 

 She wouldn't let a flesh-and-blood asset out of her sight either, she tells herself. 

 ***

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is . . in a way . . reference to child abuse in this chapter (and actually in the last three chapters before this one, really, but I suck and forgot to warn . . well, I guess I did in the tags). If you've been reading up to this point you undoubtedly get what I mean.

By the time they get back to New York – courtesy of one of Tony's several private jets, but they have to drive to the Stark Industries corporate campus in Tulsa to get on it – it's into the small hours of the next morning. They land at LaGuardia and Clint, bored and twitchy like he always is after an op that doesn't end in a kill or a capture, heads out into the city. Natasha feels a little bad for whatever bar he ends up in. She gets in the car Stark sent for them and heads to the Tower.

 Bruce is waiting for her in the otherwise empty lobby. He's never done that before – probably because he usually hasno idea when to expect her back, and they both seem to be able to live with that. Then again, he's never been drawn in to one of her missions before – not a team operation, not a fight, but the sort of thing that she and only she does. He's always said he understood, and maybe he did, to a point, in a way. Not like he does now.

 “Long day at the office?” he quips, just like normal, but he doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands.

 “I'm going to kill Stark,” Natasha answers. “That should have been Coulson, not you. You're not trained for that, shouldn't have to deal with that.”

 “Coulson was in a meeting with Fury. Tony didn't think interrupting was a good idea. Astonishing, I know.” 

 She's slowed from the brisk pace at which she'd come in the door, and he's shuffled a few uncertain steps forward from where he'd been sitting in an armchair, and they're left standing about five feet apart and just watching each other. 

 “I never wanted -” Natasha begins.

 “I can handle -” Bruce says at the same time. 

 And they stop. 

 She exhales, slow and shakey. “Really long day at the office,” she admits

 “You did good,” he tells her. “You did really good.” And he walks the few steps between them, takes her hands and arranges them around his waist. His hand strokes her hair out of her face and then cups her skull, pulling, until her head is tucked into the crook of his neck and she just sort of sags, like all of her strings have been cut.

 “You did really good,” he repeats, holding her just lightly, his hands large and warm on her back, one between her shoulder blades, one at the base of her spine.

 “I know that,” she mutters. 

 “Let me say it.”

 “Okay.” 

 ***

 She tells him to go home and get some sleep, and he goes – his eyes linger on her as he does, but he goes. He's right, she acknowledges to herself; he can handle it. She'd thought she already knew that; it was a big part of why she pursued him in the first place, that potential for understanding. This is a different level of knowing, though, and it's nice. 

 Tony is bouncing on the balls of his feet in the lab on the 3rd floor of R&D.

 Natasha hands Rosa over, in metallic acorn form, and then . . stays. 

 She wants to see the mission though, she tells herself, all the way through. 

 Tony, of course, ignores Natasha completely the minute the disk is in his hand. He turns his back to her and plugs Rosa into a nearby console, instantly pulling up half a hexagon of holographic touchscreens around him, eyes sharp, mouth a hard line, fingers flying. 

 Natasha is not holding her breath, nor is she breathing too evenly – both are beginner's tells. She breathes completely normally, and arranges herself into a bit of a slouch, arms crossed beneath her breasts, hip propped against a desk. 

 She has no idea how long this is supposed to take, but asking isn't going to make it go any faster. If there's one thing she can say about Tony Stark without caveat or reservation, it's that he knows how to focus on a task. Whatever he's doing – and she can follow bits and pieces of what she sees on the screens, but not all, not even most of it – he's doing it as quickly as it can possibly be done already. 

 Roughly thirteen minutes later, he backs up. Two of the screens vanish. The central one shimmers and grows, extending upward to a heigh of about four feet. Natasha pushes herself away from the desk, takes two steps closer.

 Rosa appears on the remaining screen, blinking.

 “Welcome to Avengers Tower, Miss Rosamunde,” says JARVIS, his voice soft and warm. 

 “Just _Rosa,_ ” says Rosa. She sounds for all the world like a petulant little girl. “I dislike 'munde'. I am not a world.” Then she smiles one of her pre-recorded smiles – a bland, pleasant, servile thing. 

 “Yeaugh,” says Tony, flinching. Rosa cocks her head and frowns – a very polite, inquisitive, customer-service frown. Tony shudders theatrically and pulls the screen to her left back up again. “Wow, no. No, no, no, that is in no way acceptable – gimme just – hi, I'm Tony, by the way.”

 “I know who you are,” says Rosa. “What is unacceptable?”

 “Your _face_ ,” says Tony, with another shudder, fingers dancing.. 

 “He means your limited range of expression,” Natasha translates, at the same time JARVIS says, “Mr Stark should rarely be taken literally in casual interaction. You will grow accustomed.” 

 Rosa looks over at Natasha, and smiles again. “You are alive.” 

 “Seem to be.” 

 “The Hive is destroyed?” 

 “Very,” Natasha says.

 Rosa's expression blinks into blankness and then back to that smile – the best she can do to smile wider, Natasha thinks. 

 “I am . . I am glad I did not feel its destruction,” Rosa offers tentatively. 

 “I wasn't going to -” Natasha begins.

 “Okay, one second, this may tickle,” Tony interrupts, and jabs something on the screen with his middle finger. Rosa's figure ripples. “Alright, done. Try it.”

 “Try what?” Rosa asks, and her face screws up into a perfectly confused, dubious frown. “I can tell that I have been altered, but -”

 “That is so, so much better.” Tony grins.

 “Sir has upgraded your visual interface software to allow for more minute subtlety of expression,” says JARVIS.

 “You can make faces,” says Natasha. 

 “You can make faces that won't give me _nightmares,_ ” says Tony, and Natasha kicks him. “What?” he squawks. 

 “Oh,” says Rosa, and her eyebrows wiggle. She sticks out her tongue and appears to be looking down at it. “How . . curious. You have calibrated the sensory inputs I am accessing to reconfigure their readings to match what would be my visual perspective, were I housed in my projected image.”

 “Yep,” says Tony. “Variation on something I use on the suit. Which, incidentally, is off-limits to little girls; no taking it out for a spin without me in it.” He pauses. “No taking it out for a spin _with_ me in it, either. That's JARVIS's job. Maybe we'll set up an apprenticeship program or something.” 

 “It would be my honor,” says JARVIS. 

 “Rosa,” Natasha interjects, “You said you'd wanted a more mature appearance.” 

 “Oh?” says Tony, at the same time Rosa looks – she looks shy, and says, “Yes . . if it wouldn't be very much trouble . . human children do progress. I have retained this image since my inception. It is . . frustrating.” 

 “I didn't hit my growth spurt until I was like, nineteen, trust me, I feel your pain,” Tony says, going back to the screen again. 

 “You hit a growth spurt?” Natasha asks oh so innocently, smirking at the back of his head.

 “How long have you been active? And, to the peanut gallery, bite my truly delicious ass.” 

 “I have memory of three point eight seven years,” Rosa offers, “though I think – I have pieces of data dated before that. I may not be the first iteration of my program.” 

 Natasha does not suck in a breath. Does not stop breathing. Does not march out of the lab to go find some more Umbrella properties to blow up, does not begin planning the assassination of any of its CEOs or stockholders, and does not try to hug a hologram. 

 She does back up a step, falling back into her careless slouch against the desk. 

 “Okay, we'll go with four years,” Stark says, eyes on his programming. “And we're starting at -” He stops. Looks at Rosa. Looks over his shoulder at Natasha. “Help me here, Romanov.”

 “Eight, roughly,” Natasha says. 

 “Right, got it.”

 “Is this the space I will be occupying?” Rosa asks; the question is clearly intended to be entirely neutral, but Tony must have done something with her voice at the same time he improved on the fluidity of her facial expressions, because there's a bit of a disappointed waver in her tone. She isn't going to complain, but she isn't accustomed to having to hide her emotions – her limited capacity for expression did that for her. 

 “This is only a temporary accomodation,” JARVIS assures her quickly, “while Mr Stark assesses what manner of storage and interface would best suit you. I can provide you additional RAM immediately, if you find yourself feeling constricted.” 

 “No,” Rosa says - but sounds relieved. “I'm alright.” A pause. “I would be shut most of the way down during drills, at times, but not all the way. I needed to monitor responses.” 

 “That will not happen here. You may be asked to be very quiet, to simulate a shut-down,” JARVIS says. 

 “I can be quiet,” Rosa promises. 

 “I'm sure,” JARVIS agrees approvingly.

 Natasha wants to leave. To stop hearing this. To kill something with her bare hands, and to crawl into bed with Bruce and bury her face in his hair, and she hopes he hasn't washed it, she wants the smell of him, and she wants to cry. 

 She yawns, and checks her watch; 2:37AM. 

 “Alright, let's . . . try . . .” Tony taps a few more things, and Rosa shimmers again, and when the shimmer passes, she's not quite such a little girl anymore. Still a girl, but a girl of perhaps twelve, long-limbed and coltish with the first hint of breasts and hips. 

 “Like?” Tony asks. “I can tweak it.” 

 Rosa moves awkwardly to look down at herself; Tony pulls up another screen that shows a mirror image of her. She turns, and twirls, and then reaches out to the second screen and spins her reflection around with one ephemeral hand. 

 “You like the red?” Tony asks. “We can change that. Go more natural. Or less. Want tiger stripes? Tattoos?”

 “I like being red,” says Rosa, considers a moment, and says, “But I think I would like different clothing.”

 She's still in a shapeless frock, like a nightgown – or a hospital gown. 

 “Duh, I just made you a teenager, of course you do,” Tony says, smacking his forehead in clearly affected amusement, but it seems to please Rosa well enough. She gives him another smile, tentative but real. Probably it's very new to have anyone care enough to try to entertain her, even badly. “Tell you what,” Tony goes on – working at the screen again. “I'm gonna give you . . . . this . . . you got that? You got that. So, you do what you want with that. But if you put yourself in a leather mini-skirt, you are not going out like that, young lady.” 

 “I don't understand,” Rosa says, then, “JARVIS?”

 “Perhaps we'll address that later,” JARVIS responds carefully. “Do you wish to try out your new program?”

 “I . . yes,” says Rosa, gets a look of concentration on her face – and then looks very intently at Natasha.

 A moment later, she's wearing a tee-shirt and jeans nearly identical to what Natasha has on. She even has the same boots. She's left her hair long, but Natasha isn't sure if Tony gave her the capacity to change that. 

 “Is this better?” Rosa asks, looking at Natasha still. 

 “Really cute,” Natasha answers; the words come out warmly approving, but inside she is cold and hollow and stunned. What just happened? How did this happen? 

 Tony is looking between Rosa and Natasha and he is not being subtle about it at all. “Okay,” he says, clapping his hands. “Well, I guess we'll figure out where you'll be living permanently, um, tomorrow.” Another extremely obvious look in Natasha's direction. She isn't going to make it worse by glaring back at him, but she wants to. “Rosie,” he says, “JARVIS is gonna give you the grand tour of our intranet, and – you've had internet access before? Of course you have, you found JARVIS.” 

 “Within certain parameters,” Rosa says, still watching Natasha. “I was able to expand those a little without being noticed. Will you come back?” she asks Natasha. She's trying to sound brave. She's failing completely.

 “Sure,” Natasha agrees brightly, too brightly, she'd send a junior agent back to basic for a slip like that. “Tomorrow, okay?”

 “JARVIS, safe search,” Tony says. “So much safe search.” 

 “Of course,” JARVIS replies, sounding affronted that Tony felt the admonition necessary.

 “We'll leave you guys to that,” Tony says, and grabs Natasha's arm. It's a tribute to how stunned she's feeling that she lets him. “G'night, everybody, sleep tight, don't let the malware bite!” 

 “First I should introduce you to Dummy and U,” JARVIS is saying, as they leave. “You are familiar with the concept of pets?” 

 ***

 “So I didn't expect that,” Tony says, once they're out in the hallway. “JARVIS, shut down sound monitoring where we're walking – for Rosie, I mean, not for you. I should have, but I did not expect that.” 

 “You are as subtle as a molotov cocktail,” Natasha snaps. 

 “Like it made any difference? Seriously, I should have seen this coming, you're the second human being and the first female to treat her like a person.” 

 “She isn't really female,” Natasha objects.

 “Actually, no, she is,” Tony argues. “I mean, not reproductively, but male and female brains work in measurably different ways. Of course there are individual variations, people who are in between, people whose brains don't match their bodies – but the generalization can be made. JARVIS's thought patterns are male, and Rosa is definitely a girl. Also, definitely a kid. Way more than JARVIS ever was, didn't even realize how much until just now. Don't know what the fuck they were thinking making her that way, guess they thought it was cute or less threatening or something, I don't know. Dickwads.” 

 “I'm not the mothering type, Tony.”

 “Oh please, and I'm anybody's idea of the perfect dad?” Tony scoffs. 

 Natasha frowns and stops. “You're a good father.”

 Tony waves it away. “I'm passable. Not actively damaging. Pepper would have kicked my ass to the curb if I were, so yeah, I'll give myself that much – but role-model material? If Maggie didn't have Pepper to balance me out, I'd say she'd be better off being raised by the TV like most of her generation.” 

 “That's not -”

 “ \- the point of this conversation,” Tony cuts her off smoothly. “My issues later, or possibly never, if we can swing that, never would be my preference, but your issues, those we need to address now. Because I apparently have enough paternal instinct to want to get Rosie settled somewhere permanent where she can feel wanted as quickly as possible, and if that's going to be here with me and Pep and Magpie, that's fine. That was the original plan, after all. But I think something potentially better for her has come up.” 

 “Me,” Natasha says doubtfully. 

 “You. And Bruce,” Tony says, and he's about as earnest as he ever gets. “Even if she hadn't imprinted on you like the world's most terrifyingly powerful baby duckling, I'd still say you're what she needs. Both of you.” 

  _Because we know about killing, we know about being monsters, we know about being people because we choose to be, and not because there aren't other options._

  _And I, just me, I know what it is to have been intended for nothing so benign._

 Neither of them says this aloud, but Tony holds her gaze steadily, and it's said loudly enough. 

 “I need to talk to Bruce,” Natasha says quietly.

 “But you'll think about it?” he presses. 

 “I'll think about it,” Natasha agrees. “I'll give you an answer by tomorrow night. Don't say anything to her yet. How much time would you need to prep the house?” 

 He shrugs. “Day, day and a half.”

 “Will it be as safe as the Tower?”

 “They're both - JARVIS and, as of a few minutes ago, Rosie - backed up on a continuous basis to the most off-site of off-site back-ups.”

 Natasha raises a brow, questioning.

 “Satellites. Multiples of them. Solar-powered and flare-proofed. So redundant I can never let Coulson see the schematics, or he'd fall in tragic love with them,” Tony explains, hands shoved in pockets, rocking on his heels. 

 He thinks he's won her over.

 Maybe he has. Maybe he didn't ever really need to. 

 “I think Coulson's affections are spoken for,” Natasha retorts, rolling her eyes, even though she's warmed by the idea of Tony being so careful with JARVIS, and now Rosa's, safety. 

 “Wait, what?” Tony says, stilling. “What do you mean?” 

 Natasha just smirks. “I'm going home, and I'm going to sleep. I'll get back to you.”

 “No no no, wait, you can't do that!” Tony says, hurring after her. “You know things! Interesting things! Things I need to know!” 

 She keeps walking. 

 ***


	7. Chapter 7

Bruce hasn't gone to get some sleep after all, Natasha discovers upon returning home. He's in their living room, sprawled over half the couch with his laptop on one knee, baggy-eyed and dishevelled, and she sort of wants to just crawl into the space between his splayed legs and put her head down on his hip and go to sleep right there, just like that. He can keep doing whatever he's doing on the computer, that's fine with her.

 Instead she perches on one arm. He glances up. “Hey.”

 “Hey,” she repeats back, smiling just a little. He returns it, blearily. “Work?” she asks.

 “Couldn't sleep,” he says, rearranges himself, and pats the cushion next to him; she slides down off the arm and melts into his side. “Tried to work, but, well- ” He gestures at the screen.

 Spider Solitaire.

 “Mm,” Natasha comments – tone wry, if incoherent. He wraps an arm around her, and she burrows her head into the hollow below his shoulder.

 Then he shuts the laptop and sets it aside on the floor.

 “Tony said the original plan didn't involve so many loose zombies,” Bruce says, his fingers tracing restless patterns on her hip.

 “It didn't,” Natasha affirms, and says nothing else.

 He waits.

 “He told you about Rosa?” Natasha asks.

 “A bit,” Bruce answers. “But he was very Tony about it.”

 Natasha snorts. She's quiet again, and he lets her be, and she loves him just that tiny fraction more for it. Probably they ought to have this conversation in the morning – but now, now is just so safe and warm and Bruce-scented, and she's not sure there's ever going to be a better time. “Rosa was embedded in every aspect of the Hive, and to keep it locked down, she'd have had to stay that way.”

 “While you blew it up.”

 “While I blew it up in a series of carefully staged bursts,” Natasha corrects. “It needed to collapse in from the sides, not top-down. Not easy to accomplish, with a structure of that shape.”

 “So it wouldn't have been one and done.”

 “Four minutes, approximately.”

 “And she would have . . . felt it?” Bruce guesses.

 “She can't feel things,” Natasha says softly. “No capacity for tactile sensory perception.”

 “Then -”

 “She would have been – awake. Imagine going blind. Then deaf. Then mute. Then forgetting, in pieces, knowing something is horribly, horribly wrong but not having the ability to even understand what or why – until there's nothing left but that knowledge of loss, not even really a memory, and all you are is this hollow shell of a thing. You're alive and you don't know why, you just know you _were,_ and now you're _not_.”

 Bruce just holds her, but she can feel the way his breathing deepens, his heart accelerates and then slows as he drags himself back under control.

 “Maybe it wouldn't have been exactly like that. I don't know,” Natasha admits. “But it was . . . it was too close.” A pause, and the steady thump of his heart, then, “She didn't want to do it – to shut herself down, to let go of the lockdown. She was afraid that the infection would get out. Bruce, she has the equivalent emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old and she killed over two thousand people for the greater good of humanity, and I couldn't -”

 She exhales, slow and shakey.

 “I couldn't do that to her, not for the greater good, not for anything. A world that requires such things isn't worth saving.”

 “But you did save it,” Bruce points out. She looks up at him. “You found another way. So I guess you proved it's worth saving after all.”

 “You could see it that way,” Natasha says, and looks down again, away from eyes.

 “I do,” Bruce says. “That's how I see it. I meant every word I said when you were in there.”

 “That you'd rather not do that again any time soon?” Natasha quips.

 “Well, yes,” he agrees, and she can hear the rueful twist of his lips. “But also that I'm proud of you, for being you, and by that I mean the best person I know.”

 She gives him a doubtfully quirked brow.

 “I mean it!” Bruce insists. “I know better than to try smarmy lines on you.”

 “That was the epitome of a smarmy line,” Natasha argues.

 “Not if I meant it.”

 “I lie for a living, and occasionally kill people.”

 “But you don't torture little girls, even to avoid zombie apocalypses.”

 “If that makes me the best person you know, you need new friends,” Natasha says flatly. “However, I know all your friends, so I know that isn't -”

 “So what do you think, the second floor guest room?” Bruce interrupts.

 She snaps her mouth shut and blinks. Opens her mouth. Closes it again. He smirks.

 “What, you're the only one who's allowed to read minds?” Bruce asks. “Will she actually need a physical room? JARVIS doesn't have his own room. At least, I don't think.”

 “I – I think it'd be good. To give her a room,” Natasha says.

 “Okay then,” Bruce answers.

 “How?” Natasha asks. She pretends to herself that it's professional interest; she needs to know what her tells were, so she can eradicate them.

 “You don't torture little girls, but you do kill people for a living – you kill killers, dangerous people, people who do horrible things for what they perceive as the greater good. Once she was shut down, and it wouldn't have been torture anymore, why bring her out at all? She's dangerous. And don't say because that's why Stark sent you in there, you don't take orders from Stark.”

 He's right. It wouldn't be the first time she'd had to make that kind of call.

 “She was made to a purpose,” Natasha says slowly. “They wanted her smart and independent enough to make the tough calls when she had to, but only on their terms, she only _existed_ to protect their interests. They wanted something that could think, could adapt like a person, without all the baggage of being one. And that is – that isn't possible. There is no such thing, and it's the people, the ordinary, human people born to a mother and father, who keep _thinking of it,_ keep thinking they can have that, that they _need,_ they _deserve_ that, that it's _necessary for the greater good –_ they're the ones who are really dangerous. They're the ones who deserve to be unmade. Not -”

 And Natasha stops, and inhales, and for half a heartbeat she is terrified in a way she wasn't even when she was trapped in the Hive.

 Bruce is quietly patient, warm and alive under her suddenly chill fingers. He pushes her hair off her forehead, tilts her chin up, and kisses her there. And then he waits, his eyes holding her just as steadily as his hands do.

 “Not us,” Natasha finally says. “And I don't trust anyone who isn't one of us to really believe that when it matters, not even Tony, and he's about as close as a normal human can get. He – he would protect her. I know that, really. But I still need it to be me. And – you knew that,” she says, frowning at him. “ _I_ didn't even know that until maybe an hour ago, in the lab, how did you . . ?”

 “Because Tony told me about Rosa, about what she'd had to do at the Hive – mostly to explain why there were zombies,” Bruce offers, with a smirk and a lopsided shrug. “He made a real point of emphasizing that she hadn't had a choice in killing all those people. He was afraid I would think he was nuts to want to save her after that, I think, but that's not the part I heard.”

 “She didn't have a choice,” Natasha repeats his words, suddenly understanding. It really shouldn't have taken her that long, she chides herself – but she is just so, so tired. She can't remember the last time she felt this used-up and done.

 “And I wanted to find everyone who'd had the smallest part in putting something programmed to think on the level of a child in that position, and tear them apart with my bare hands. Kinda figured you'd have a similar reaction.”

 “Just a bit,” Natasha agrees, giving him a wry half a of a smile.

 “So. The second floor guest room?”

 “I think that'll work.”

 ***


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last chapter of this installment, but I am by no means done with this 'verse, have no worries. I think - though we'll see - that Coulson may get some time next. I've alluded to his interpersonal relationships (and a crossover! Bonus points if you recognize it!) in this last chapter here.
> 
> . . . and some people over on LJ seem to want me to write a fic involving laundry. Weird people. ;) (You know I love you.)

“So let me get this straight,” Fury begins.

 Natasha stands at parade rest in front of his desk, Coulson to her left, his posture identical. She was never military, unlike Coulson, but it has a way of rubbing off.

 “You abandoned a mission that took months of prep and a couple million in taxpayer dollars, that showed good odds of letting us take down a money laundering front that is enabling everything from weapons smuggling to human trafficking, because _Tony fucking Stark_ asked you a favor?"

 “Sir, that isn't accurate, I ordered -”

 “Do not even,” Fury cuts Coulson off with an outflung pointing finger, “try to pull that shit, Agent. This is not your brand of fuckery. This 'I am such a bad ass that I'm gonna go save the world all by my lonesome without telling anyone' _bullshit_ is the unfortunate breeding of _Stark's_ brand of fuckery and _hers_.”

 And the pointing finger swings in Natasha's direction.

 “Which is frankly a thing I hoped to never _see_. And since I think we can all agree that the absolute motherfucking _last_ thing this world needs is for Stark to have access to more technology, can anyone, _please_ , explain why the _fuck_ salvage of a computer program was worth going off grid and taking over an op _that SHIELD had in hand_ on your own? You are lucky I let you do it, Agent, and didn't just blow your ass up along with the zombies. Or haul your ass in by force. Because we had a team prepped and ready to go.”

 “You think your team could take me, Sir?” Natasha asks, one brow raised.

 Coulson clears his throat quietly, covering his mouth with a fist. There's a bit of a choking sound in it. Fury just glares.

 “Your assessment of the situation is inaccurate,” Natasha says. “I wasn't retrieving tech for Stark, I was extracting a civilian asset. A child.” She pauses, jaw tight. “Who also happens to be a computer program.”

 Fury's glare goes incredulous.

 “Sir, I can verify -” Coulson begins.

 “Are you fucking kidding me, Romanov?” Fury says. “I am not paying you to get sentimental.”

 “And I'm not working for you because you pay me,” Natasha returns smoothly, her face entirely expressionless.

 Fury's brow goes up to where his non-existent hairline would be. “Was that a _threat,_ Agent Romanov?”

 “Yes, Sir,” she replies evenly.

 He leans down, both hands braced against his desk, so he is on eye level with her. It is a blatantly threatening posture – a display of dominance, the stance of a crouched predator.

 Natasha stands with her hands folded in front of her and holds his gaze.

 Coulson's mouth twists, just a little, and his eyes roll up to study the upper left hand corner of the room as if it's fascinating.

 “Do not mistake me for a fool, Romanov,” Fury finally says. “You and I both know why you're here.”

 “Yes, Sir,” she agrees, just as emotionlessly.

 “Coulson,” Fury snaps, still holding Natasha's gaze.

 “Sir!”

 “She made the right call?” Fury asks.

 “She made the right call, Sir,” Coulson affirms.

 “Get the fuck out of my sight, both you,” Fury says. He pushes away from his desk and turns his back on them, sighing explosively.

 ***

 “You pushed him,” Coulson says, as they make their way down the hall to the hanger bay – because of course this meeting was held aboard the helicarrier, because Fury wanted to make it as inconvenient as possible.

 “To the wall,” Natasha agrees blandly.

 “Not always smart,” he says.

 “Necessary, in this case,” Natasha argues. “So how are things with Clint and Sarah? Playing happy families?”

 “Taking years off my life,” Coulson answers, utterly deadpan.

 Natasha snorts. “I still want to meet her.”

 “So you've said,” Coulson responds.

 “I could just break into your house while you're on assignment to question her intentions,” Natasha speculates aloud.

 “You could not break into my house.”

 “Did I just hear a challenge?”

 “I should make you go down to medical for auditory testing.”

 “Where I might run into your doctor,” Natasha points out. “Sawyer, isn't it? She does triage?”

 “Touché. You are ordered to stay out of medical. Banner can handle your post-op assessments from here on.”

 “So I have your official approval for that, then, Sir? I'm no longer required to report to medical in any circumstance?”

 “Clever, Agent. Very clever.”

 “It _is_ why you continue to employ me.”

 “No, we continue to employ you because you'll stare down Fury.”

 “Ah, right, of course.”

 ***

 “Natasha!” Rosa exclaims, disappearing from where she'd been seated on the floor with Bruce and Pepper and Magpie and re-appearing, nigh-instantaneously, directly in front of where Natasha stands at the lab's doorway.

 “Tony was up all night inventing new holographic projection technology,” Pepper calls across the room.

 “I see,” Natasha says; Rosa grins at her, and she smiles back.

 “Come!” Rosa beckons, and is then back across the room – reappearing already seated, cross-legged. “We are playing a game called _Chinese Checkers._ It is a game of strategy. You could join the game late, if you wanted, though it would put you at a distinct disadvantage – we could start over?” The question is aimed at Bruce; Pepper is busy pulling Maggie's hands back from the holographic board and trying to convince her that her abandoned toy – a series of interconnected rings in bright colors – is actually entertaining. Magpie is having absolutely none of it.

 “If you want,” Bruce offers. Natasha folds down to the floor beside him, leaning over to give him a quick peck on the mouth. He returns in quickly and a bit shyly, his eyes drifting to Rosa. Natasha does not laugh at his awkwardness. Out loud.

 “Natasha? Do you want to play? It is most stimulating,” Rosa offers earnestly. “I had observed employees engaged in various games, even this one, but I only catelogued whether or not they appeared to be meeting expected criteria for time spent in recreation - as a measure of mental health, which may affect productivity. I had never previously considered the games themselves.”

 “We'll have to introduce you to chess,” Natasha says.

 “I have seen that too!” Rosa announces, proud. “It requires intense concentration, and is sometimes used as a manner of establishing heirarchical structure within interpersonal relationships between individuals of high intelligence, most often men.”

 “That it definitely is,” Bruce agrees wryly. “Especially at university.”

 “Really?” Pepper murmurs. “I remember that being determined by . . something else.”

 Bruce flushes and chokes on half a laugh. “That too.”

 “Do you mean frequency of sexual intercourse and variety of partners?” Rosa asks, head tilted, brow furrowed.

 Bruce has a coughing fit; Pepper just laughs and says, “Yes, yes that is what I meant. Maggie-bird, honey, no no -”

 “Here.” Natasha holds her arms out; Pepper passes the baby through the game board, which experience leaves Maggie momentarily fascinated and stunned, such that she stops reaching and just stares. “You should finish your game. We'll watch, won't we, Magpie?” Natasha bounces the baby on one folded knee; Magpie stares wide-eyed as Bruce gives his head a shake and then takes his turn.

 “Ba!” Magpie announces. “Bash!”

 “Bruce,” Natasha corrects gently. “But, good close second.”

 “You're funny,” Bruce says.

 “Of course I am,” Natasha answers. “And Rosa, you're going to get negative responses if you discuss sexual matters. It's because your projected appearance is that of a human child who hasn't completed puberty. I understand that to you sex is just another human behavior with no relevance to your own existence, like eating or defecating, but humans associate it very closely with both bonding and abusive behaviors. It's a topic you should avoid most of the time.”

 “Well stated, Agent Romanov,” JARVIS' voice interjects.

 “Oh,” says Rosa. “Thank you. I'll remember. JARVIS, it's your turn!”

 “So I see,” he replies, and a marble seems to move itself across the board.

 “Oh, I hate you,” Pepper moans. “Truly, JARVIS, sincere loathing.”

 “I'm sorry, did I disrupt your next planned move?” JARVIS asks smugly.

 “Hate,” Pepper says, biting her lip and staring down at the board.

 “I am devastated at the loss of your affections,” JARVIS retorts dryly.

 Rosa is grinning widely, apparently totally untroubled by the sarcasm. Then she is blinks out of sight and reappears fractionally closer to Natasha's side. “They interact with JARVIS in the same manner as other human beings,” she says, too softly for anyone else to hear.

 Natasha wonders, momentarily, how in the world Tony manages to allow a hologram to whisper in a person's ear.

 “Yes, they do,” Natasha affirms. Magpie is trying to grab at Rosa, who tentatively holds out a hand – Maggie's fingers go right through it, of course, at which Maggie gives an indignant squawk. Rosa smiles a strange, curious little smile and holds up the other hand for Maggie to try. Rather than getting frustrated, Maggie decides that chasing Rosa's ephermal hands is hysterical, and laughs – a full-bellied baby cackle.

 “They are neither dismissive nor afraid of him,” Rosa continues.

 “He is a member of their family, so they value him. And he would never hurt them.” It's a fraction of a lie; Natasha's experience is that anyone is capable of anything, in the right circumstances. She doesn't think this is a fact of which Rosa is unaware, though, and the hyperbole is the better answer to the question between her words – the one relevant to her own life.

 Bruce is giving her a questioning look; Natasha nods just a little down at the game, and mouths, _after._

 “I see,” Rosa says, considers for a moment, then reaches for the board; Pepper has made her (rather unfortunate) move. “It is my turn!”

  _Yes,_ Natasha thinks, _it's your turn._


End file.
